Visions: Knights of Salucia - Book 1

by C. D. Espeseth

  As he walked Matoh greeted the people he knew along the way. He waved at Martha Glimmering, the leather merchant who had her shop at the bottom of the hill. He always liked the smell of the new leather as he passed by. She waved at him as he passed by.

  He stopped to talk to Horace Thornsvale, who was packing away his stall of fresh fruit as he passed. He bought a small sack of apples, and Horace convinced him to try a strange purple-skinned fruit called a “treasure plum”. They were supposed to grow on some of the rocky islands around Tawa. Matoh cracked a joke and Horace laughed as he boxed up the remnants of his wares.

  As he walked further, he bit into the purple flesh and a burst of sweet juice dribbled down his chin. The flesh was golden and silky inside. It was wonderful. “This is really good!” he called over his shoulder, holding up the fruit for Horace to see.

  “I know!” Horace called back. “Told you!”

  Matoh grinned and happily ate the rest of the fruit, not caring about how sticky it made his fingers. It was just what he needed after his session of exercise.

  He passed an Aluvikan style pub and saw Baraka Shem, a sailor who must have been enjoying some shore leave, who tried to get him to come in for a pint of ale. “They’ve tapped a keg of Ferret’s Gold, Matoh!” Baraka called from the door.

  “Tempting,” Matoh yelled back. “But I have to get home. First day at the Academy tomorrow, you know!”

  “Congratulations! You poor sod!” Baraka held up his mug in salute. “I’ll drink one for you in commiseration.”

  “Better have two then,” Matoh said with a wink raising his hand in farewell.

  Yes, he loved this city, loved its people and the harmony they had found in the mixing-pot of culture that was New Toeron. How Wayran could think about leaving was beyond him.

  A flash of guilt went through him then. Wayran hadn’t known what to do with himself after their uncle’s pronouncement. They were lucky to be alive, but Matoh knew Wayran didn’t see it that way. Had all of that happened less than a month ago? His hand went to the shard of glass now polished and woven onto a chord hanging about his neck. It was the only thing he had brought back, but that shard had saved his life. It would be bad luck to throw it away.

  He shook his head in a sort of baffled wonder at their adventure in the Wastes. Most of it seemed like a dream now, but the shard was proof that it had happened. Wayran said he had siphoned lightning, swore it. Matoh didn’t know what to think about that. It couldn’t be true. He would be dead, yet … something had driven the Roc away.

  These thoughts about Wayran were stifling his good mood. He would have to do something to try and help Wayran, but what that might be he had no idea. His brother was complex at the best of times and utterly incomprehensible the rest. It sometimes amazed him that they were related. Matoh spent the rest of his walk home trying to think of how to lift Wayran out of his gloom.

  ***

  Matoh arrived home in better time than he thought. His leg had held up well despite the walk back feeling like it was all uphill.

  He unlocked the door to the corridor beside the workshop and made his way to the stairs leading up. The familiar creaks of the wooden stairs comforted him. The warmth of the house made his cheeks glow as the vestiges of the cool autumn air of the night began to leave him. He idly let his finger touch the ornate wooden frame of the magnificent painting in the hallway.

  He glanced up and knew he would see his mother’s face looking back at him from that painting. Sadly, it was now how he remembered her features. He had been so young when she had left. Wayran said he could still remember how she had looked, but he couldn’t. So he made himself smile back at the silver image of his mother. She was in full armour with her helmet tucked under her arm. She was depicted with her head held high, yet the artist had captured the hint of a smile on her lips as she stood proudly at attention.

  Matoh’s smile was genuine as he met his mother’s painted eyes. She would be proud of him, her boy going to the Academy. He wasn’t going to let her down, he would rise through the ranks and become a great leader like she had been, honouring both the Spierling and Koslov names.

  He turned to leave and it was then he saw Wayran through the open door of his brother’s room.

  “What are you doing?” Matoh asked, shocked. Wayran was wearing his Academy blacks: the formal dress uniform all initiates wore on their first day. “Why would you do that?! Take that off!”

  Matoh burst through the door but came up short as he saw his father standing in the room behind Wayran. His confusion only increased. This was all wrong. “Dad, what is going on? Why is Wayran in my uniform?”

  His father held up a hand. “It’s alright, Matoh. That’s not yours. Yours is still in your wardrobe where you left it.”

  Matoh turned on his heel and barrelled down the hallway, jostling a small table and nearly dumping the array of collected oddities from its top. He cursed under his breath and shouldered open his bedroom door. He flung open his wardrobe and saw an identical black military uniform staring back at him. Relief flooded through him. He had been keeping the creases perfectly straight for weeks now. But what was going on?

  “Why does Wayran have one?” he called loudly from his room as he looked at his thankfully still pristine set of blacks.

  “Come in here, Matoh,” his father called back to him, “we’ll explain.”

  He closed his wardrobe doors, careful not to jostle the uniform, and lumbered back to Wayran’s room. “What’s going on?” he asked again, more curtly than he had intended.

  “Wayran is also going to train at the Academy. I got him a spot on this year’s initiate list,” his father said with a quiet firmness.

  The look he received from his father said he had not appreciated his tone. Matoh shook his head and looked over to Wayran, who had just finished buttoning up the last golden lapel button on the far left side of his chest. Matoh thrust his chin at Wayran. “I thought you never liked the idea of going to the Academy.”

  He saw Wayran hesitate. His brother looked to be searching for the right words, and it made Matoh clench his jaw. They had fought about this very thing several times before. It was usually a topic they avoided.

  “It’s a smart choice for me at the moment,” Wayran said slowly, deliberately.

  His brother’s words were pointedly not antagonistic, which of course antagonised him no end – and he had seen something else as Wayran spoke. There was anger in his brother’s eyes, daring him to say something in retaliation.

  And Matoh, of course, couldn’t stop himself. Part of him was still stewing at seeing Wayran in a uniform his brother had never properly respected. “It’s a smart choice any damn moment,” Matoh hissed, “it’s just not one you’ve ever recognised before. Why the change of heart, brother?”

  “Stop it, the both of you,” their father’s voice snapped.

  Yet Wayran ignored their father; his smouldering eyes were alight now. “Get down off your self-righteous horse, Matoh. You didn’t exactly leave me with many workable options after you ruined my chances of being a Storm Chaser.”

  “So going to the Academy on a military scholarship, as that’s what I assume Dad has got you, is something you will just have to settle for, is it?” Matoh said, almost wishing he could spit venom. “And what do you mean, ‘ruining your chances of being a Storm Chaser’? You were right there in the thick of it with me.”

  “Only because you decided to take a joy-ride in someone else’s glider and fly right into a giant gods damned sandstorm!” Wayran yelled back.

  “You were right there behind me. Just as curious as I was,” Matoh said stepping forward and poking Wayran in the chest.

  “I was trying to get you to come back, you idiot!” Wayran yelled again.

  “I said enough!” Their father’s voice boomed through the small room, making both boys stop in mid retort.

  He had a hand on both of their chests. Matoh hadn’t realised he had dropped into a fighting stance and had squa
red up to Wayran. He now relaxed and stepped back, but didn’t flinch away from Wayran’s angry glare.

  “You are both going to the Academy so you had better get used to it.” Harold Spierling pushed both of them back firmly but not violently. “Now the both of you, keep your big mouths shut and listen to me.” Their father waited, but Matoh and Wayran could both see the angry set to their father’s jaw. He was in no mood for any further outbursts.

  “Matoh, your dedication and drive to get to the Academy cannot be questioned, my son. However, you will not lord that over your brother. Each of us is different, and though we might come to the same place by different paths, it is how we move forward which matters. I love your passion, son, don’t ever lose that, but you can’t hold it against people if they do not have that same level.” His father cupped his hand along Matoh’s jaw and held his eyes for a moment. The look said he understood what Matoh felt.

  “Wayran,” his father said as he turned to look at his other son, “life almost never goes exactly to plan, in fact it rarely does. Do not blame others for happenstance. What would you have done? Let your brother fly off alone into danger? Let him die? No, you wouldn’t, I would not have had you do one thing differently, even if that pirate of a brother-in-law of mine can’t understand that. Brothers protect each other. Always.”

  He let his words linger in the air, making each of them meet his eyes. Then he turned back to Wayran. “You will have to make the most of whatever opportunities present themselves to you, even if they are not the ones you have tried to steer yourself towards.” Their father held Wayran’s gaze then, imbuing his words with weight. “Do not take this placement at the Academy lightly, for it was with your mother’s reputation I acquired the spot, not mine. People at the Academy will judge not just you but also your mother’s legacy by your actions. Which isn’t fair on either of you, but it is the reality of things. Besides, Wayran, this could turn out to be a blessing in disguise.” He tapped Wayran gently on the shoulder. “But you have to be willing to accept it.”

  Wayran bowed his head, showing a bit of shame, and appeared to take their father’s words seriously

  “Now, the both of you, head to your rooms, pack what you need, and get some sleep. Tomorrow will be a big day, you’ll need your strength.” It was more than just a suggestion, and Matoh turned away from Wayran without another word. He couldn’t worry about Wayran, he had his own things to fret over. He had to make a good impression, and that wasn’t going to happen if he was stewing over what Wayran might do.

  Matoh had packed everything he needed in what seemed like no time at all. His mind still raced, not quite accepting the situation yet.

  Wayran at the Academy? Matoh understood his father’s arguments, but this had always been his thing. It was what Matoh had been striving for ever since he could lift a sword. It was all going to start happening for him tomorrow and now his sulking brother was tagging along as if it were some sort of punishment.

  Matoh knew he was working himself back up, but he couldn’t stop himself. His anger and frustration kept rising, drowning out his excitement, which only frustrated him more. He should be excited, and Wayran was ruining the moment for him.

  “Aargh!” Matoh growled at himself. “Stop it.”

  It was then he heard a knock on the door. “Can I come in?” his father’s voice said from the hallway.

  “Yes, come in,” Matoh said, forcing down his mounting frustration.

  His father came in and gave him a wry smile. “You got everything?”

  “I think so,” Matoh said, slightly more clipped than he would have wanted.

  His father sat down beside him on the bed and misinterpreted his short reply for nervousness. “You’ll do great, Matoh. You’ve been training for this your whole life. Ever since you were little, this is all you ever wanted.”

  I know! Matoh thought, yet he kept his words civil. “And what if I mess it up?” He spoke his fear aloud. “What if –”

  “What if a thousand possible things happen?” His father cut him off and put his arm around his shoulder.

  What if Wayran messes things up for me? he had been about to say, but just then he let himself be hugged instead of continuing his argument.

  There had been a time when Matoh had felt small in those arms, but now his father struggled to get his arm around his broad shoulders. “Well, some things might happen,” his father said, “but you deal with them, head on, and you don’t let them push you off track. The way you’ve always done, Matoh. When you set your mind on something, son, it gets done. You shouldn’t worry so much, the Academy is just where you need to be and you are going to be great. Just remember to enjoy it alright?”

  “I will, Dad.” Matoh nodded.

  “I mean it.” Harold Spierling looked him in the eye. “You’re too hard on yourself. Your mother would already be proud of you. You don’t have to prove anything, understand?”

  “I understand,” he said. But I do have to prove something, he thought. To myself. I am the son of the Silver Lady, and I will show them all what that means.

  His father hesitated, almost as if he were about to launch into another tirade. “Good. I hope you do, and, Matoh ... ?”

  “Yeah?” Matoh raised an eyebrow.

  “Don’t give your brother a hard time about this alright? Your mother wanted you both to go to the Academy. Maybe she has a hand in all this, even if your brother can’t see it.”

  Matoh grimaced inwardly. His father was probably right, but he just couldn’t take that right now. His frustration and restlessness were still boiling within him, but he forced himself to say what his father wanted to hear, “Alright, Dad. I’ll try my best.”

  “Good enough,” his father said. “You going to turn in?”

  Matoh knew he should, but he also knew he’d never find sleep in the state he was in. “I think I might step down the street to the Broken Clock, get a little help for sleep.” It wasn’t the healthiest choice, he knew, but right now he needed something to calm his nerves a bit. Ale, music and atmosphere were just what he needed to take his mind off Wayran and the Academy.

  “Well, just don’t get carried away. Lock up when you come in.” His father gave Matoh a wry, knowing grin. “I’ll walk you through the gates tomorrow. See you off before the shop opens.”

  “Alright, Dad.” Matoh nodded and took a deep breath. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  His father smiled once more and then left him to his thoughts.

  Matoh took one more glance at his packed belongings and then heard Wayran shifting things in the room down the hall. He rolled his eyes. Time to go get a drink and thump his feet to some music. He tromped back down the stairs and out onto the street, hoping to find a better mood and something to calm his nerves as he waited for the morning to come.

  14 - The Fall of Dawn – Jonah

  Meskaiwa’s journey started at the sea’s edge.

  Meskaiwa looked to the north and saw forests of pine, birch and bluewood. He looked to the south and saw plains of grass and winding rivers. Then he looked to the west and saw mountains, and knew these to be his destination. For the sea and the east was behind him, and his feet had led him back to the beginning, his feet had pulled him home to the west.

  For twenty-five days and twenty-five nights, Meskaiwa stayed within the horseshoe cove into which the sea had delivered him. There he collected his strength and refined his mind for what he knew was to come.

  And on the twenty-sixth day he set out towards the mountains, following the river up to its birth. He reached a summit on the twenty-ninth day, which was the last day Our Saviour walked this earth. For on the twenty-ninth day, Meskaiwa ascended to heaven and joined Halom in His vigil over this land.

  - Tenents of the Elohim

  Dragonfly.

  What a wonderful name. The giant insect alighting on Jonah's foot-bow somehow encapsulated all the magic that the name implied. It was sitting only a finger’s width from Jonah’s left foot, looking at hi
m with its enormous multifaceted eyes. The dragonfly fanned iridescent wings in the sunlight, flashing the colours of a rainbow. Its head was so impossibly bulbous, with giant hairs sprouting from every angle, it was a wonder it could move at all, let alone fly. But fly it did, gliding over the long grasses Jonah now lay in, hunting for whatever smaller insects it surprised in its lazy flight.

  Fin’s friend, Oleg, the logistics officer, had asked a very nice farmer and his wife about the name of the giant hovering insects and then translated the name for him. Jonah had been watching them hovering above flowing grasses ever since. The vibrant reds, greens, and blues of their long, segmented bodies, the grace with which they glided through the warm summer air; they were magnificent.

  "VOLLEY! AWAY!" The shout resonated above the grasses as a drum thumped near him.

  Jonah reacted on instinct.

  He released his two-handed grip on the thick width of string and surprised the poor dragonfly. The wicked, four-foot black arrow launched to join the thousands of others arcing towards cream coloured walls.

  Jonah stared up as the sky darkened above him. The deadly cloud of arrows partially blocked the sunlight before it descended to deliver death beyond those walls.

  Please surrender quickly, he said to himself. The Empire does not lose, and the faster these people learn that, the better for everyone.

  He reached beside him to fit another of the huge arrows to his foot-bow. A gesture that was now as automatic as breathing. He wiggled his toes to keep the blood circulating in his feet and waited for the order to pull and release. Hurry up and wait, hurry up and wait. Pull and release, pull and release. This was Jonah’s life in the imperial machine.

  Tall green and yellow grass rose on all sides around him. And above, crystal clear blue skies. Not a day for war, not a day for death, but such things mattered not to their Prince, whom they had followed across the sea. They were here to enact the will of the almighty Empress, may she live forever, and she too cared not what type of day it might be.